


Watching the Watcher

by Arsenic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Spanking, Survivor Guilt, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 10:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9887480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Noah is tired of Chris always figuring his life is worth less than others'.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harriet_vane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harriet_vane/gifts).



> Hey Rache, sorry this took so long. I know it's not your fandom, but I do hope it hits your kink the right way. Also sorry it's not beta'ed, but I'm being lazy.

Noah didn't go into law enforcement for the uniform and the sidearm and the cuffs, although, admittedly, the way Claudia had looked at him the first time he'd tried the khakis on had been a definite bonus. But no, he'd chosen that path the second time he'd landed in the hospital on account of getting between his dad and his mom. He'd chosen it the moment he realized the sheriff at the time was going to brush the incident under the rug, because Noah's dad gave good contributions to his campaigns and was a "pillar of Beacon Hill society."

He's spent his entire adult life thinking of his place in the law, in the order of things, as a protector, a last line of defense. Chris Argent makes him rethink that. Not because Noah doesn't think he has a place in keeping peace, in upholding order, in standing tall for those who cannot. But because Chris is willing to—and does—cross boundaries and lines and bars to keep what is his safe. And sometimes (often), just to keep those who can't do it for themselves safe.

Noah wonders if that's what he'd be like were Stiles to die. Claudia was bad enough, Stiles… Noah makes himself not think about it. He can't if he wants to function, to put one foot in front of the other.

He reaches Mel's house less than ten minutes after she called. He parks in front and comes up to the door, not surprised to turn the knob and find it open. They're in the kitchen, Chris sitting at a chair, already shirtless, apologizing softly, most likely because he's gotten blood all over the place.

Noah goes to the coffee pot and finds it empty, so he rinses it out and sets a few cups to brewing while Mel disinfects and stitches and bandages whatever Chris has managed to get torn or sliced or ripped open.

When she's finished, she says, "All right. Go get cleaned up. There's some sweats in the closet. Bottom drawer on the right."

It's not even that Chris lives here, or stays here and leaves things now and then. No, it's that this has happened enough that making sure there's something for him to slip on when he's no longer quite so bloodied has become a necessity. Noah watches Chris' retreating back. 

Mel says, "Hey."

Noah says, "Somebody should nail his feet to the floor."

Mel makes a sound that's part agreement, part exasperation. She gets into Noah's space and forces him to look at her. Tells him, "He's safe. We're all safe."

"Not for lack of trying," Noah grumbles. She doesn't disagree, but the kiss she goes up on her toes to give him draws out most of his tension. For the moment, he gives into it, letting her have her way.

*

It takes several days for Chris's wounds to knit and really scar over. Several days wherein Noah reaches for mugs for him, makes sure his trash gets taken out, and scowls at him when he overexerts himself in any way. Which he does a lot. Because he's Chris, and heaven fucking forfend he let others take care of things even for half a second.

Noah doesn't touch Chris. That's not…that's not what they do. Mel touches. She touches Chris, she touches Noah, but it's all triangular. (Stiles' wording. Stiles has whole psychiatric theories about the situation. Noah just thinks they're both very used to being straight men.)

But almost a week to the day after being injured, Chris straps on a few holsters and heads to the door, throwing something out about Malia needing back up. Noah cares about Malia, he does, but she's got a whole pack at her back and these days, if Noah hasn't already heard about the issue, it really doesn't require more than that. Hell, not even the humans actually in the pack should be showing up to these little turf skirmishes. It's an unnecessary risk over something that the supernaturals can and will take care of.

Something _snaps_ inside Noah. It's as if all these years of watching Stiles and Scott and Lydia and Mel and everyone he cares about, everyone left, have worn down that piece of him that can stand still and let it happen, and now that piece has broken. He's not even sure how he's at the front door before Chris—Chris is faster than him even on Noah's best day—but he is.

He takes a breath and says, "No."

Chris blinks. "No?"

Noah looks at his feet, planted solidly, and then back up at Chris who's looking at him as though he's gone crazy, and says again, "No."

*

In a fair fight, Chris could beat him. Noah doesn't question that for a second. Despite all of Stiles' histrionics—and, all right, perhaps a little because of them—Noah keeps himself in shape. If they were talking about an average guy in his age range, Noah'd have more than a solid chance. But it's not, it's Chris, who was trained to be a weapon from the moment he could crawl and who has never learned to let any of those honed edges soften.

It's not a fair fight, though, because Chris' control is as harsh and overwhelming as his deadliness. Noah says, "No," again, and flips them, pushing Chris between the wall and himself. Chris is pinned between Noah's arms, his gaze flickering to where one of Noah's hands meets the wall, as if that will explain what is happening. It might not, because Chris looks back up and says, "Noah—"

"They can handle it," Noah says. "Stiles would have already told me if it was something serious. They've got an alpha and a werecoyote and a banshee and a few werewolves just for good measure. One of them who can pull off a full shift. They can handle it. You don't—you don't owe any of us anything, let alone this. You don't."

Something sparks in Chris at that, anger, Noah thinks. Chris narrows his eyes. "You're telling me that if it was Stiles who—if it was Stiles, you wouldn't do everything in your power to keep the others safe? _Everything._ "

"Of course I would," Noah says, because he's not a fool, and he's almost lost Stiles more times than he can count, now. "And I would damn well hope you or Mel would stop me before I did something stupid."

"And that's what this is? You stopping me?"

Noah doesn't really think about it, can't or he won't move. He ducks in, pressing his lips to Chris', and for a moment it's desperate but chaste. Then that moment is over and Chris is grabbing the front of Noah's shirt, the two of them clinging, Chris taking almost violently, if not painfully.

Noah breaks the kiss just long enough to say, "This is me holding you."

*

Chris doesn't have a response for that. He pants against Noah's mouth for a bit and when Noah starts herding him down the hall toward Melissa's bedroom he's pretty sure he should argue, should push his way past Noah and hold his promise to Ally to protect her friends. He knows he should, really. But…but it has been so long since someone has stood and allowed him to lean. Or, maybe it hasn't, maybe he just hasn't noticed. He's noticing. He's noticing, and it's hard to step away, to do anything but give Noah exactly what he wants.

Chris notices Noah taking the cuffs off on his belt. It's ridiculous. Chris could stop him with a single hand, with a step to the left, with a "no." He does none of those things. He allows Noah to push him down onto the bed, to gather Chris's hands about his head, to cuff them to Melissa's headboard.

Noah bends down to kiss Chris, gentle and sweet. "Stay," he orders, the look in his eyes telling Chris that he knows damn well Chris could be out of the cuffs in five seconds or less if he so chose. Noah waits a moment, and Chris finds himself nodding. Noah smiles, a little quirk of his lips. "Good."

Something catches in Chris's chest. Noah drags his hand along Chris's arm, and leaves. Chris can hear him, though. He's in the hall, speaking lowly to someone, but Chris can't hear what he's saying. He could be checking on Stiles or telling the station he can't come in or…well, anything.

The strange thing is, Chris doesn't feel panicked. Noah won't do anything to hurt or embarrass Chris. He's…safe. It's an almost disorienting awareness.

There's the sound of Noah walking around a bit, and then he's back with two of Melissa's fluffy face towels. Chris blinks and before he even understands what's happening, Noah is tucking the towels between Chris's wrists and the cuffs.

Chris closes his eyes and tries to just breathe. Noah lies down on the bed, pressing himself into Chris's side, and says, "We're gonna wait for Mel."

Chris doesn't know that he can stay here, that he can keep himself still while he knows the kids are out there. "Please," he says, "Noah, I can't—"

Noah spreads one hand over Chris's sternum, says, "You can. For me. For Mel. You can."

Chris takes a deep breath. Noah keeps saying, "You can."

Chris wants to listen to Noah, he wants to be obey. He forces himself to time his breaths to Noah's words. Noah says, "There you go. You can."

*

Chris startles out of the breathing meditation he's sunk into at the sound of the door from the garage closing. Noah says, "Shh. You're fine, we're fine, everyone is fine."

Noah keeps talking, and by the time Melissa appears in the doorway, still in scrubs, hair pulled back, warm and steady and gorgeous like always, Chris has settled again. Noah says, "Hey there."

Melissa smiles and leans against the door jamb. "Hey there."

There's a pause and Chris can tell they're communicating silently. They can do that, the years of raising Scott and Stiles between themselves a certain type of code that Chris will never be able to decipher. It doesn't leave him feeling left out, exactly, they are so terribly careful to include him, to take care around Ally's absence. But that care is its own type of marker.

Noah asks, "In your professional medical opinion, would you say that Chris should still be allowing his body time to recover?"

Melissa nods. "I would say that."

More quietly, Noah asks, "And in your opinion as his lover, would you say that Chris's life is as important as the rest of ours?"

Melissa's eyes darken just slightly. She pushes herself away from the door, kicking off her knock-off Crocs and approaching the bed. Chris finds himself shifting. He's not afraid. They're two of the kindest people he's ever encountered, and while he knows without question or pause that both of them would kill without thought to protect their families, the pack, he also knows without having to consider that they will never hurt him. 

He's uncomfortable. With their concern, with their attention, with…with the thought that somehow he means something, even having failed Ally.

Melissa says, "Yes," crisply, intently. "Yes, I would say that."

Chris jerks then. He doesn't mean to, doesn't even know he intends to do it until he already has, until he can't seem to stop. He needs to escape, but none of the calm that usually comes in a life and death situation is with him, none of the logic that allows him to institute the skills and muscle memory of a lifetime. 

He stills immediately when Noah orders, "Stop."

Chris is breathing too hard, he needs to slow his breath, he needs to—he, he doesn't know what he needs. "Please," he says, "Don't," he says, except that's not exactly right, either.

Melissa's there, then, straddling him, her hands on his face. "Sh. Shush, Christopher."

He goes quiet, listening. Noah says, "Say 'no,' and all this stops."

Chris opens his mouth to say it, opens his mouth and shuts it. Melissa leans over and kisses him. "All right, sweetheart. It's all right. Just let us do the work, just this once."

They call him things like this, sweetheart, babe, hon. Well, Melissa does. Noah's fondness is in the way he tends Ally's grave so Chris won't have to, the way he makes sure Chris' gun permits are up to date. Chris—Chris protects them. He can't do that weak, he can't do that on his back.

His breath picks up again, and Noah repeats, "One word, Chris. No."

Chris opens his mouth. He's tired, and if he pays even the most vague level of attention, he's still in pain. He says, "Yes."

*

"Good," Mel says softly, her tone happy, the edges of her mouth turning up even as she leans over to kiss Chris. Noah watches. She sleeps with both of them, has for some time now, but they've never watched her with each other, and they've never done this together, the three of them, a unit, despite the fact that emotionally, Noah thinks it's been like that for even longer than any of them is willing to recognize.

Chris tries to rise up, to _help._ Noah watches for a short moment, and then pushes him back down gently. "Stay."

Chris looks up at him, eyes wide, pupils slightly blown, and says, "I don't—I can't—"

Noah shakes his head. "You can. You can and you will."

Shivers are running underneath Chris's skin, Noah can feel them even with Chris's shirt between Noah's fingers and Chris's skin. He says, "We're going to give you everything you need."

Mel follows, "And you're going to lie there and take it."

It's an impossibly tender command, in direct opposition to the actual words. Chris chokes out something that's half sob, half sigh of relief. Melissa leans down again and kisses him, swallowing it. Noah caresses at his chest.

Melissa draws up and lifts herself off him. She crawls onto Noah and lifts her arms and her eyebrows. He quirks a smile and swipes her top off, reaching behind her to unhook her bra. She rolls over again, onto his other side, toeing off her socks and shucking her pants and undies.

Noah knows without looking over that both he and Chris are captivated. It's nothing they haven't seen before. She's not perfection, no more than either of them. They are all human, middle-aged, and survivors. She is gorgeous.

She works the rubber band out of her hair and shakes out her curls. Noah reaches out to touch, and Chris makes a plaintive sound, which, if the look on his face is any indication, is as much a surprise to himself as to them. Melissa reaches out and undoes Noah's utility belt, but not before she grabs at the Swiss Army knife he keeps in one of the pockets. 

He lies back and lets her unbutton his shirt, push it off him and throw it aside. He looks over and blinks at the way Chris' eyes are on his body, hungry. Noah is comfortable in his skin, but he does not kid himself that he has the lean muscle Chris has kept honed, the stark silver handsomeness of a man who's a little more GQ than suburban sheriff. 

When Noah focuses back in, Mel's got him all-but naked. She hooks her fingers in the waistband of Noah's briefs and he arches slightly so that she can tug. Chris's gaze narrows in on Noah's cock, more than partially erect. Noah wonders if maybe he's the only man in this room who has never acted on his interest in other men.

Mel hands Noah the knife. "You get his shirt. I'll get his shoes."

Noah looks down at the knife, and then laughs, just a bit. He's not laughing for long—it's too intoxicating, the way Chris doesn't draw away from him and the knife, the way, if anything, Chris leans into his hands, trusts Noah not to hurt him, despite the ease with which he could.

When they have Chris wholly naked as well, Noah takes a moment just to look. He's imagined, of course he has. But it's different, having this, Chris unable to turn away or deny him. He meets Chris' eyes. Chris's expression is uncertain. Noah could laugh. Instead, he pushes Chris' legs apart to kneel between them. He bends over, running his tongue from the hollow of Chris's throat to the v of his pubic hair. 

The shivers that had been confining themselves to beneath Chris's skin become full-blown shaking. Noah kisses at the inside of Chris's thigh and says, "Sh, darling. We've got you."

Mel, sitting to the side and running her fingers through Chris's hair, says casually, "Of course, you're allowed to beg, if that will help."

Noah gathers Chris' balls in the palm of one hand, rolling them, enjoying the feel of them, the right of possession. Chris _breaks_ , keening, "Please, please, anything."

*

Chris's desperation is almost enough to hurry Noah. Almost. This is the first time Noah has ever had the pleasure of acting on his aesthetic enjoyment of other men, the first time he's had the breadth of Chris at his mercy. Nothing is quite enough to actually hurry him.

Melissa says, "Tell us what you want, Christopher. Tell us, and it's yours."

Chris pants, "To be yours," and Melissa opens her mouth, but Noah looks up at her and says, "You already are."

She nods. "You want us to show you, Chris? Is that it?"

The expression on Chris's face is breathtaking, open and vulnerable and trusting. Noah kisses at Chris's hip, and then down, exploring the muscles of Chris' legs with his tongue, the smooth skin at the back of the knees, the scars that pepper their way over his body. There are even a few on Chris' feet. A map of pain and endurance.

When Chris' pleas have gone sub-vocal, Noah wraps a fist around the base of Chris's cock and swipes a lick over it, half to accustom himself to the taste, half because he's always liked that form of play, personally. Chris comes off the bed. Melissa presses him back down, and says, "Stay."

Chris's breathing has gone a little thready. Noah comes up and brushes a hand over Mel's cheek. "Why don't you give him something to concentrate on?"

Mel can be cunning and mischievous, but in that moment, her laugh is merely delighted. She kisses Chris and asks, "Would that help?"

"Please," Chris says, and it's not really clear if it's an answer, or the only thing he can remember how to say, but either way, when Mel straddles him, lowers herself onto his face, his reaction is immediate and enthusiastic. Mel sucks in a breath and says, "Fuck, Christopher."

Noah watches for a moment, and then lowers himself back onto Chris's dick. Noah has always liked oral sex, liked working for what he wants to see in his partners, liked the sense of a job well done that accompanied getting better and better at it. It's no different with a man than it was with Claudia, is with Mel.

The way Chris struggles so hard to keep his hips still that the muscles in his stomach tremble is unbearably hot. Noah straight up almost comes untouched when he forces Chris to lose that modicum of control and to buck, just once. It chokes Noah, and there shouldn’t be anything sexy about it, but none of that matters.

Noah lets go of Chris's cock and licks a stripe up the entirety of the underside before swallowing him again, and hums at the feel of Chris flying wholly apart right under Noah's hands.

*

Melissa says, "Don't come, Christopher," even as his tongue drives into her, enough pressure and finesse to have her grinding against his face, her hands curling over his where they're holding to her headboard, body tightening in the onslaught of pleasure.

Chris almost doesn't obey, almost can't. Noah's mouth is hot and sloppy and that perfect blend of enthusiasm and inexperience, and Melissa is surrounding him, everywhere. Thankfully, Melissa rolls off of him, and coaxes Noah away just in time to allow Chris to hold on. It takes closing his eyes and focusing harder than he ever has on his breathing, but he manages it.

When he opens his eyes again, they're both watching him, Noah nearly breathless. Chris _wants._

He must make a sound, because Melissa says, "Sh, we've got you."

There's a clink and before Chris realizes it, Noah is undoing the cuffs. Chris almost argues. He doesn't want the option of escape. Noah rubs his wrists, despite having covered them in the towels, and Chris stays still, allows Noah's hold to become its own kind of bondage. 

Melissa says, "I bet you want him to fuck you, hm?"

It's said sweetly, with a casual interest that Chris is pretty sure is a lie. Sure enough, when he looks at her, her eyes are almost all pupil. She's right, though. It's been a long time since Chris has been fucked by a flesh-and-blood cock. Don't get him wrong, riding Melissa, or glancing over his shoulder as she drives into him is an intoxicating experience of its own kind, but it's not the same, not nearly.

He squeezes his hands. "Please. Noah, ple—"

Noah kisses him, softly shushing his pleas. He pulls apart and says, "I, uh. I mean, I'm pretty sure about the mechanics, but—"

Chris figures what goes around comes around and cuts Noah off with another kiss. "I like it a little rough, anyhow."

Noah's breath shudders out of him. "Jesus. Jesus."

Chris rolls his hips, desperate for friction, his skin too damn small for his body. "Please, Noah. I need—"

Noah pushes Chris onto his stomach and then places his hands back on the headboard, wrapping them around the metal. "Keep them there for me."

"Mm, yes," Chris agrees, biting his tongue to keep a "sir," from slipping out. Maybe later, if they talk about it, if Noah is all right with it the way Melissa is.

Melissa has grabbed the lube and condoms from her nightstand drawer and hands them to Noah. Chris grips the headboard until his hands hurt, and can't stop from saying, "Please," again.

When Noah slides a finger in, it's not enough, not nearly enough, and Chris says, "Two, please, at least two."

Noah slides his free hand down the length of Chris's spine and says, "We do this my way, or not at all."

The very last part of Chris that forces himself to hold everything in control dissolves, and Chris sobs, "Yes, your way, yes."

*

It's not that Noah delights in torturing Chris—although, there is a strange thrill in drawing this out and making him take it—it's that this is a first for him, and Noah has always liked to take his time with new experiences.

He spends endless minutes with two fingers in Chris, particularly after he finds Chris's prostate and wrings an aborted shout from the man. He goes up to three not so much because he thinks Chris needs it, but because watching his fingers disappear into Chris is intoxicating.

Honestly, it's unsurprising when he nearly comes the second he's got the head of his dick in Chris. He might be just a hair past the wrong side of fifty, but there's been a lot of foreplay and also, Chris is _tight._ It doesn't help that Chris groans like he might die and like he'd be _perfectly fucking fine_ with that.

"Fuck," Noah says, his mind blank with pleasure. Which is when Melissa, who's gotten off the bed and gone behind him while he wasn't looking, presses herself into his back, pushing him steadily into Chris. 

He bottoms out with a strangled cry, and Melissa peers around his arm to say, "Mmm, now that's a pretty picture if there ever was one."

Chris is making breathy noises, but he's still under Noah's hands, pressing into his shoulder blades. Noah pulls nearly all the way out and then pushes back in, harder and faster, thinking of Chris's admission to liking things a little rough. Melissa murmurs, "Yes, just like that."

Noah's nerves are on fire, between her approval and Chris's submission. He sets up a rhythm that can only be called punishing, driving Chris further into the bed. Chris whimpers and asks, "May I come, ma'am?"

Noah almost does then, the title taking him by surprise, even if maybe it shouldn't. Melissa says, "Tell me you're as important as the pack, as the rest of us, and you can come any time you want."

That's just fucking evil, and Noah couldn't enjoy the idea more if he tried. He makes sure to take the next stroke nice and slow, pulling along Chris's prostate. Then he says, "You heard the lady."

Chris's hands are holding the headboard so tightly, Noah's a little amazed it hasn't snapped, metal or no. He makes a noise in his throat that is the closest thing to desperation in sound Noah has ever heard. Noah rakes the pads of his fingers down Chris's back and drives in. He leans down, pressing himself along the length of Chris. "I believe it. Mel believes it. We're not asking you to believe, not yet. We can do that for you. But you do have to say the words. You have to try."

Chris is shaking like there's an earthquake happening inside his skin, like it's twenty degrees below zero, like everything is about to come apart. Noah doesn't move. "Chris."

"I—" He breaks off, panting.

Melissa gets back on the bed, lying next to them, pressing herself into their sides. "That's it, c'mon."

"I'm…important."

" _As important_ ," Melissa insists.

"As—as important." Chris sounds like the words are being ripped from his throat, like they're knives, tearing out his vocal chords. "As the p—as the pack."

He's halfway there, so Noah pulls out, and drives back in again. Chris screams. Noah asks, "And?"

"And—and the rest of us!!"

"What about the rest of us?" Mel asks, which is cruel, but Noah thinks she's probably right to do it.

"I—" Chris is sobbing at this point, somewhere between inconsolable and undone. "I'm as important."

"Yes," Melissa says, and Noah watches as her hand worms its way beneath Chris, no doubt to touch him. Chris comes off the bed, even while his hands stay holding the headboard, and Noah's hands are on his hips. He tightens around Noah, his body going rigid with pleasure, and that's too much for Noah to hold out against.

Noah loses several moments to his own climax, to the sounds of Chris's release, to Mel's soothing murmurs of, "That's it, mhm."

When the world comes into focus again, he carefully pulls himself out and goes to dispose of the condom. While he's in the bathroom he dampens a few face towels with hot water and then comes out to find Melissa coaxing Chris' hands open, rolling him onto his side.

Melissa nods at Noah and says, "You take care of him, I'll get some fresh sheets."

Chris is still shaking uncontrollably, so Noah sits against the headboard and hauls Chris up until he's got his back against Noah's chest. Noah takes one of the cloths and starts with Chris's face, wiping away the traces of Melissa, and tears, and sweat. He works his way down Chris's chest and stomach, moves him this way and that so that he can get to his ass and thighs. 

By this time Mel has come back. Noah pulls Chris out of the bed and puts him in the window seat. He helps Mel strip the bed and put the new sheets on. She's clearly run the dryer for a couple of minutes, because they're pleasantly warm.

As soon as he can, Noah gets Chris back in the bed and curls up behind him. Mel disappears for a moment, bringing back a couple of glasses of water and a few of the banana nut muffins she'd made over the weekend. Noah sits up and gets Chris to as well, and they each eat a muffin and drink some water.

When they're all lying in the bed together, bundled under the covers, and Chris' shaking has subsided for the most part, Chris says, "That was…thank you."

Noah kisses his shoulder. "Nothing to thank us for. Sleep."

Chris makes a noise of disagreement, but he does as Noah tells him to.

*

Things really do settle for a while after that. Chris gives up the lease on his one bedroom apartment and moves into Mel's house. He's better about consulting with the pack but only getting physically involved when it's clear all hands are needed on deck.

Then November and the holidays roll around and well. The holidays are hard. Noah gets that. Still, when Chris says he just needs to get away for a while and then takes a job helping the Calaveras with a Jikininki infestation in their territory without mentioning it to anyone, returning two weeks later with a broken left wrist and an actual fucking bite wound on his leg that Mel has to flush of infection, Noah is done being understanding. 

He watches as Chris sits on the side of the tub, Mel poking at the area to make sure the local has taken effect and says, "What the hell, Chris?"

Chris' finger tighten on the side of the tub. "I owe them. They helped me with Kate."

"They blackmailed you into—" Noah cuts himself off. He won’t escalate the situation by pointing out that even if they'd all known Chris's sister had to be killed, none of them had thought he should have had to do it himself. Nobody except the damn Calaveras. He takes a breath. "You owe them nothing."

Chris snarls a little. "But you. I owe you, right? You and Melissa?"

Noah counts to ten. Then he counts backward from ten. Then he walks out of the room, out of the house, down the street. He's a mile away before his phone rings. He looks at the screen and answers, "Hey Mel."

"Clearing your head a bit?"

"Sorry. I didn't want to—Yeah."

"If you wanna come back, Chris ordered a supreme pizza from that place a town over and went to go get it so you could have all your favorite toppings without Stiles knowing."

"Did you mention to him that he shouldn't be driving with a broken wrist?"

"I said you probably would."

"Jesus."

"He is who he is, Noah. You can be mad at him for leaving us out of things, for keeping secrets that shouldn't be kept from us, but you can't be mad at him for never having had anybody to depend on."

Noah lets out a breath. "I'm not _mad._ "

Mel makes a noise of disbelief. Noah waves a hand. "I mean, I'm pissed about the attitude, sure, but I'm not mad at the things he does. I'm—"

A few seconds pass before Mel asks, "Petrified?"

"That," Noah agrees.

"I know," Mel says softly. "So come home, and eat his peace offering, and then make him feel your fear."

Noah blinks, suddenly thinking back to that evening, all those weeks ago, after they'd slept together the first time, when he'd warned Chris, "Try something like this again, and you won't be able to sit for a month."

He clears his throat. "Feel it, huh?"

"Down to his toes," Mel says. Then, "You need me to pick you up?"

"No," Noah tells her. "No, I need a few more minutes to—just, I'll get myself back."

"See you soon."

*

Dinner is a silent affair, if not actually awkward. Chris goes to take a beer out of the fridge and Noah takes it out of his hand, putting it right back. There's a moment where it looks like Chris is going to argue, try and push things ahead, but instead reaches for a soda, and sits down to eat.

There's not much to clean up, but Noah's not in any rush. If there was one thing he learned raising Stiles by himself through his early adolescence, it's that giving someone time to think about what they've done is invaluable.

Instead, Noah helps Mel with her laundry, watches the evening news, and keeps an eye out as Chris orbits around him warily. After the news, Noah turns the television off and heads into the bedroom. He doesn't wait to see if Chris follows.

Chris slips into the room a moment later, Mel on his heels. His body language is tense. He says, "I do. I know that I do. Owe you."

Noah shakes his head, catching the way Mel frowns in the corner of his vision. "No, Chris. It's not— Maybe in a way. But not so much that it should outweigh your wants or needs."

"Except when my needs are fulfilling a debt." Chris says it flatly, not even as if he disagrees, just with a pure lack of understanding.

Mel tugs at her hair, but stays silent. Noah says, "Except when your needs are to put yourself in harm's way because for some reason known only to you, you're less important that whatever you've put yourself in front of."

Chris shakes his head, but that seems to be the whole of his response, and type of simple denial of the whole premise of the discussion. Noah steps in his space and says, "Look me in the eye and tell me you know it would bring me to my knees to lose you, and I'll consider everything to be okay, and go to bed."

Chris looks him in the eye. He barely manages to breathe, let alone speak.

Noah nods. "Then tell me I don't have the right to teach you that lesson, and we'll yell at each other some more, see if we can come to a place of equilibrium."

Chris stays silent.

Noah swallows. "Tell me you don't want me to each you that lesson."

Chris tightens his lips into a sharp line. Noah watches for a moment, then nods. "Clothes off."

Noah goes to sit on the bed, watching as Chris strips, neatly folding his clothing and setting it on the closest dresser. Noah holds out his hand, and when Chris takes it, pulls Chris to him, maneuvering the other man so that he's lying over Noah's knees. Chris shudders violently, but doesn't say a word.

Noah looks over at Mel and says, "I need you to hold his feet."

To Chris he says, "You struggle and you might hurt her. You know that."

Chris nods. Noah says, "Hands under or above your head. They stay there." He doesn't add the or-else. He feels it's implicit. And honestly, Noah mostly just wants Chris's injured wrist somewhere safe.

Noah never spanked Stiles. It wasn't just that he had triggers three miles wide around hitting a kid in any way, it was that it never seemed necessary. Just being disappointed in Stiles did the trick. And when it didn't, taking away access to Scott was a surefire solution to any discipline problems.

He expects himself to feel a little hesitation, to take a while to find his rhythm. All it takes, though, is the red-hot burn of panic at the thought of Chris going off to the Calaveras and not coming back and Noah's hand knows exactly what to do.

There's no warm up, no interludes. This isn't about pleasure for either of them, any of them. This is about driving safety into Chris's very skin, about planting the understanding of his own importance into his damn blood. He gives careful berth to the thigh where the bite is bandaged, but that's about the extent of his mercy.

Noah loses track of time, track of everything except his hand and the flesh beneath it, heated and trembling uncontrollably. The words, "You think they would want this, Chris? You think Allison would be just fine with her dad running himself ragged for the people who manipulated him over her loss? You think Scott is completely at peace with a member of his pack wholly ignoring his own safety? You think Mel and I can just sit back and not worry when you're off, somewhere, allowing yourself to be hurt because you think you deserve it for the sin of having survived?" run from his mouth.

The skin is edging toward a shade of black and Noah can't even feel his palms by the time Chris shouts, "Sorry! I—sorry."

Noah stops immediately, hauling Chris to his feet, wrapping himself around the other man, keeping him upright through the sobs shaking his whole frame. Mel's there, too, surrounding them, her arms keeping them together, keeping them steady.

"Jesus," Noah murmurs, his lips brushing the skin of Chris' forehead. 

Mel herds them into the bathroom and with a little bit of shuffling Chris in between them, they manage to disrobe and fit all three of them in the shower. The heat and closeness of the quarters goes a long way toward calming Chris. Noah, for his part, needs the ability to bring Chris back down, soaping at him carefully, inch by inch, folding him into towels, getting him into bed and making him drink the water Mel has brought back from the kitchen.

When Chris is tucked between the two of them, still shivering, but less so, he speaks up again, another shaky, "Sorry."

Noah says, "It's done. You're forgiven. It's…there's no need for that."

Chris's breath hitches a bit, and Noah suspects he doesn't entirely believe, but Chris doesn't argue, either, and for the moment, that's enough.

*

Noah wakes to the weight of Chris's gaze on him. Mel's still asleep, snuffling adorably into the skin of Chris's back, and even with the seriousness of the moment, Noah can't help smiling a bit. It's little moments that he misses most with regard to Claudia, and he doesn't think he'll ever learn how to stop holding to them fiercely with Chris and Mel.

After a second, Chris breaks, laughing softly as well. Noah cups a hand to his face, murmurs, "You sore?"

Chris rolls his eyes. Noah rolls his right back. "Yeah, yeah, Mr. I Slay Demons Before Breakfast. You've got a healing bite, a broken wrist, and bruising that's probably going to last for close to two or three weeks. Are you sore?"

Mel, who has evidently been woken by their conversation, snorts. 

Chris makes a face, just barely, but it’s there. "A little. I need it, though. It's…grounding."

Noah doesn't understand, has never found anger or pain or fear to be anchoring, but he knows that it works for others. He doesn't have to understand. He nods. "Please don't—don't force me into that again. Ask, or, or give me signs, but don't…don't let it get to that point."

Chris says, "I didn't know I was doing it."

"I know," Noah acknowledges.

"But I'll try."

It's all Noah can really ask for. Mel speaks up, her voice rough with sleep, which is more sexy than it should be. She says, "Not to bring the level of discourse down, or anything, but what's the likelihood I'm going to get to watch Noah give you the fucking of your life while you're still sore enough for it to be just a little hard to take?"

Chris makes a noise that might be indicative of the fact that he's swallowed his tongue. He coughs. "Jesus, Melissa."

She props her head on one hand and says far, far too sweetly, "Just asking."

Noah cocks an eyebrow at Chris. "You know, on my part, I try never to disappoint my partners."

Chris, for his part, rolls over to kiss Mel and pulls back to say, "Yeah, that's a good goal to have."

Mel laughs against his lips, and reaches out to the side table to grab supplies. She passes them to Noah, who's taking advantage of the fact that Chris has turned to Mel to knead his knuckles into the bruises that have bloomed over the swell of Chris's ass.

Chris gasps and tilts his head back, mouth open. Noah meets him with his own mouth, tasting the way Chris takes the pain into himself, allows it to do the work of keeping him in the moment. Mel makes an appreciative sound, and Noah finds himself smiling. Chris bucks again, and Noah peers down to see Mel tweaking Chris' nipples, sometimes gently, sometimes, well, not.

Noah uncaps the lube and shoots a bit directly over Chris's hole, chuckling when Chris jumps from the cold of it, the unexpectedness. Chris grumbles, but gives that up when Noah goes straight to two fingers, sinking in as far as he can. Chris is clearly not in the mood for gentle, and sure enough, where he was at half-mast before, that has his cock straining to make contact with his stomach.

"You're so good at taking it for me," Noah says with genuine admiration, pleasure, kissing at Chris's shoulder, and Chris moans, shaking.

"Noah, don't—I can't—"

"Ah ah," Noah cuts him off. "You can take anything I want to give you. And if that's praise, then you can take that as well." A pause, "Can't you?"

Chris struggles, it's evident in every line of his body, but eventually he says, "Y-yes. Yes. Sir."

"Good," Noah growls, and Chris nearly hyperventilates, except that Mel takes his mouth in hers, forcing him to breathe to her own pattern. While Chris's attention is captured in that way, Noah takes the moment to dig strong fingers into the flesh of Chris's ass, pull the cheeks apart, and bury himself in Chris in one fast, deep stroke.

Chris cries out, going stiff, almost struggling, before he starts to shake again, so hard it seems like he might shatter. He's begging, "Please, please," and Noah asks, "Please, what, Chris?"

"Please sir, please, _move._ "

Noah doesn't for a moment, because he wants this to last. Instead he gives the swollen, heated skin beneath his hands another squeeze, and Chris tightens up again, making a sound high in his throat. Then, Noah presses him onto his stomach and gives him what he's asked for: he moves.

He pulls all the way only to drive back in, each thrust ending with Noah pressed against Chris's abused ass. Noah's gaze flickers to where Mel is watching, fingering herself, her eyes blown and hooded.

Noah slams back in and holds himself still long enough to say, "You're going to come just from this, aren't you? Just me taking you any way I want."

"Yes," Chris hisses.

Noah says, "Not until I say it's allowed, you aren't."

Chris swears, and then mewls as Noah starts up again. Noah waits until Chris begins begging of his own volition, and even then, he holds out until Chris sounds close to panic, when he says, "Now."

He manages—just—to ride out the sensation of Chris coming while still on his cock, because Noah wants, more than anything, to fuck Chris just a bit longer, make him take it after he's come, when it will probably be just a touch too much. Sure enough, Chris makes breathy, desperate sounds as Noah slowly, forcefully fucks him in the minutes after orgasm. When Noah truly can't hold out anymore, he presses himself wholly into Chris and allows himself to say anything and everything he wants about how gorgeous Chris is, about how perfect he is, making himself take this, how fucking _precious_ , he is.

Chris is whispering, "fuck, fuck," unsteadily, by the time Noah stops, pulls carefully out of him. He can't seem to quiet even through Mel bringing back warm washcloths, wiping them all down. It's only as both of them curl around him, latch on like limpets under the warmth of the covers, that he drifts off, the words only ceasing completely when he falls fully back asleep.

*

Noah awakens to Mel tucked against him and Chris nowhere to be seen. Mel must hear the shift in his breathing, because she murmurs, "He's in the shower."

"Mm," Noah says. "You hungry?"

"Not if you're cooking."

"I was thinking I could do a run over to that place you like with the breakfast burritos."

"Well now you're just spoiling me."

Noah kisses the crown of her head. "You've noticed, huh?"

She makes a noise he can't quite decipher. He runs a thumb down the back of her neck twice and says, "Gonna let me up?"

"Not yet," she tells him. "Not…not yet."

And well. Noah can wait, the burritos will still be there.

*

Mel has showered as well by the time Noah gets back with the food. Chris and she are curled on the couch. Noah hefts the bag and says, "I bring sustenance."

Chris shifts to get up and help, wincing as sore skin is jostled. He looks over at Noah then, smiling. Noah says, "You should let me put some arnica on it."

Chris shakes his head.

Mel says, "Chris—"

"I let you give me them. I haven't agreed to you taking them away." It's said quietly, but with a confidence Noah hasn't heard from Chris in a long while outside of discussions on hunting.

Noah's not sure how to respond to that, so he says, "I got you extra sour cream."

Chris gets near enough to brush their lips together, and says, "Thanks. For the sour cream."

He saunters off, then, grabbing glasses from an upper cabinet, and Noah says. "Yeah. Um. Any time."

Mel goes to unpack the bag and says, "Oh, they had the tomatilla sauce today, excellent."

Chris smiles fondly, and Noah thinks, _yep, the sour cream._


End file.
